


Behind Closed Doors

by Agent_Cade



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 14:36:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16348559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Cade/pseuds/Agent_Cade
Summary: Sometimes it all gets a bit too much, and an unhealthy coping mechanism comes into play. Anti-fluff.





	Behind Closed Doors

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've squeezed out of my brain in years, in an attempt to restart the flow of creative juices.

Behind closed doors

It’s hard to miss the glitch in his façade now that you look out for it. Those little tell-tale signs that he wasn’t as okay as he would have everyone believe. You don’t think anyone else sees it, and if they do, they don’t say anything. Maybe that’s a curse of being in the military; that everyone’s so affected by the toxic masculinity that to even ask if someone is okay could be perceived as a threat to their reputation. Or maybe no one wants to see it; acknowledging a person’s emotional wellbeing and issues therein would inevitably lead to having to actually do something about it. But it seems most likely that they don’t see it, because they aren’t looking for it. They aren’t secretly and shamefully hoping for it.

For once, the briefing had actually been, as the name suggested, brief. Now chairs are being scraped back, and folk are talking about getting lunch or going back to bed, depending on their shift. You switch your tablet to standby, and file out of the room with everyone else. The atmosphere is complex, with no one quite sure whether cheeriness was appropriate or not; a mission hadn’t gone to plan, there had been injuries, so there had to be statements and corrective action paperwork filed. But on the other hand; no one had died, and in the Pegasus Galaxy that had to be considered a win. 

Not for the first time, you find yourself wondering how your life’s path has led here.

Outside the meeting room you make a show of stopping to check something on the tablet, knowing that he has notes to file for all that paperwork he’ll be filling in later. The others have dispersed by the time you feel his hand on your shoulder, and it’s all you can do not to turn towards the touch.

“Your office. Ten minutes.” His voice is low and throaty, and you can hear the tension in it. It’s been nearly three weeks since your last liaison, and you’d been starting to wonder if he hadn’t found another, arguably healthier, outlet for his aggression. He trots down the stairs ahead of you, nodding amiably to Chuck, coming in the opposite direction, and you know his face is giving away nothing of the internal struggle. He turns left, heading towards the transporter that will bring him closest to his office, you go right for the transporter that will take you to yours.

You keep your head down (when do you not?) and hope no one tries to talk to you – there are coffee cups and power bar wrappers all over your desk and Evan is a neat freak – but the corridor is thankfully silent, and you slip into the small office unnoticed. Quickly you clean away the debris and stuff papers into the letter tray to be sorted later. In the top desk drawer is a tub of Mentos and a tube of lube; you pop one of the former in your mouth, and place the latter on the desk.

You take your glasses off to rub at your eyes, acknowledging that this is insane, that you’re setting yourself up for so much emotional pain, and lying to yourself, unconvincingly, that maybe this time you will try to talk to him afterwards.

The last thing you remember to do before the proximity sensor tells you he’s outside the door, is take out your earpiece – no distractions. And then the door is sliding open and he walks straight in, eyes dark with intent. There is no awkward conversation, barely even a look between you before he has you pressed against the wall, his hands gripping your wrists hard enough to bruise. His mouth is hot on your own, and you savour the scent of him; coffee and sweat and something unique and masculine. Technically, he’s kissing you, and thinking of it that way means you can enjoy giving in to it. In reality, he’s claiming you. You try to lean into him, to return something, rather than passively let him take you over, but he presses closer, until you’re all but crushed between his body and the wall. 

By the time he breaks the kiss, he’s panting in your ear and you can feel his hardness against your own. You’ve come to learn what comes next, and to not be offended by the rough way he tugs your shoulder around, facing you to wall. You brace your palms and forehead against the cool metal of the wall, knowing that behind you, he’s unbuckling his pants and pushing them down. Next, he yanks down your pants and underpants, fingers faintly ghosting over your exposed skin, probably by accident, and you hear the click of the cap on the lube, then his chest is against your back, and his breath back in your ear.

You instinctively widen your stance as you feel the warm, wet tip of his erection nudge its way between your cheeks, and feel his knuckles as he guides himself to your entrance. You’ve learnt to exhale slowly as he presses in, and there is always a sense of relief when he does this gently. You secretly fear the day he returns broken enough to make it hurt. 

Once he’s in, he moves his left hand to your shoulder, and his right to your hip, and starts pounding. To protect your head from bouncing off the wall, you drop it back and to the right, deliberately exposing your neck. He latches on with teeth and lips and tongue, and heady grunts of frustration. He isn’t gentle anymore, and you wonder if it’s supposed to hurt, because it doesn’t, it feels good. Maybe you’re just fucked up in the head, but the rougher he gets, the more you feel yourself responding. Eventually, his hand moves from your hip to your cock and you let out an undignified moan of pleasure, jerking your hips, unable to get enough of the sensation of him both inside you and outside you. His hand moves faster, and you know from previous encounters, that he won’t come until you do. Your devious side tells you to hold off as long as you can, because as long as he’s inside you, you’re his, and he’s yours. 

But it never lasts long; with a choked cry you paint the wall and soften in his hand, all the more sensitised to the pulsing inside you as he tries to get deeper and deeper until you feel the burst of his climax, and he becomes a heavy weight against your back.

It always takes a few minutes for him to move. And you wish you could read his mind, to know what he’s thinking, because he doesn’t need this long to catch his breath. 

You want to say something, but he is still inside you, and there isn’t an appropriate conversation starter in the universe for this situation.

Even as he pulls out and you can hear the jangle of his belt indicating he’s re-dressing, you say nothing, you just take the cue and pull your own pants back up. 

You turn to face him, and the best you can hope for now is eye contact, which he just about manages.

The aggression and need are gone from his handsome features, replaced by guilt and embarrassment. He presses his lips together and offers a curt nod before turning and leaving without a word.

You count to thirty in your head before picking up your earpiece and leaving the office; it’s time for a shower and a drink.

You try not to wonder if there’ll be a next time, you try not to wonder if he feels anything for you, you block out the thoughts of all the ways this arrangement could end in disaster, and most of all you don’t dare to hope that anything this dysfunctional could ever become a romantic relationship.

**Author's Note:**

> If I can ever dedicate enough time to my writing, I may expand this, but it currently stands complete as a one-shot.


End file.
